Poetry

Matthew Bass


Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 24 march 2012

11:20 P.M





Paths to love-Devotion; 
the only way to cleanse 
my thoughts: through you, 
even in rooms 
designed for Tai-Chi. 

On a dark path 
with yellow street lamps 
swimming in dark-blue 
impressionist hues 
on a pre-spring night. 
The only way home- 
Through you. 

The secret to flight: 
to deliriously float 
from street lamp to street lamp- 
Is only through you. 

You are kinetic energy 
nibbling my eardrum. 
Yet, I am sadly 
only full of potential 
on a blue-hued path.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 24 march 2012

Thoughts On Love : March 21 2012





Increase The Pressure-Conflict 
"Fuck´em up, Fuck´em up, Fuck´em up" 
coming out of the stereo like a machine gun 
no army, no police officer, no systematic hegemony 
can stop us if we have the audacity to live. 
  
The truest expressions 
are the purest forms 
without attachments 
forced upon us 
by others. 
                      -freedom 
  
I tried to picture myself 
out of love this morning, 
And I couldn´t! I really 
do care about you so much. 
  
Singular moments: 
a tightly held hand 
a kiss 
a warm embrace 
  
each just as powerful 
as the last, leading 
up to a crescendo 
that has meaning 
only in the now 
no petty status 
could ever describe. 
                     -Purity 
  
In the bar I write poetry in 
the waitress already knows what I want 
as I open a notebook blessed with 
the scars of life "Café Americano" 
she say in a husky Latin american accent, 
and you are in the notebook shielded 
from the crap that has no purpose 
while fragile me claws for 
fresh air to breathe. 
  
I like sounding like a bad movie. 
I will not lose my sense of wonder. 
I only care just enough; that is too much. 
  
I cannot defend myself against 
what other expect from me 
nor can I learn to stop dreaming, 
  
to love 
to share 
to grow 
to act without regard 
is the ultimate form of protest. 
                             -Independence 
  
You´ve said I am your release... 
You are mine, so let us not worry 
and just be.





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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 24 march 2012

Nomad





I walk alone along streets full of people   
who attempt smiles for brief moments,   
before a man in uniform nudges them   
back on the circular race of deadlines   
consumption, and unfettered wants.   
  
They peek into my book of anarchist poetry   
in horror suprise and curiosity   
in language they do not understand,   
moving forward in shielded bliss.   
  
Me. A ghost tip-toeing down the skirmish line   
one foot in the orchestra of absurdity   
honking beeping yelling falling slamming   
chattering in the symphony of decline tumbling   
down artificially expired peaks;   
  
the other foot in utopia.   
  
-   
  
Cities can be terrible places.   
Where people choke on their own dust   
to keep their head above the smog line.   
The polluted watch helplessly as their   
self-worth wastes away like fluid trends   
in the breeze, ignoring those in shame   
who ask for a little, while fighting like dogs   
for a little more.   
  
Farms can be terrible places.   
Deserts of corn spreading past the sky   
beaten down by a hot dry sun   
for scraps bathed in pesticides.   
The screams of animals   
diseased and slaughtered unmercifully   
for rich men with throaty laughs.   
  
-   
  
The once great ones,   
who despite their serfdom   
maintain lost pride, die of cancer   
feasting upon their muscles   
of malnourished hearts   
coming to terms   
with the need   
to break free.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 24 march 2012

Thoughts On Awareness March 26 2012 6:34 P.M

































                                ? 

























The perfect Café Americano 
requires two packets of sugar 
and at Morrigan Irish Tavern 
in Madrid you recieve a complimentary 
after coffee chocalate. 
If you drink two cups 
your head begins to spin 
but you recieve another 
piece of chocolate. 

I. 

Uncertainty flows from the wrist 
                 "I know she loves me" 

                          thats 
                     why 
                this 
hurts so much. 

I like us. 
I like what we have. 

I love her. 

II. 

Growing up and giving up 
are not the same, though 
they are confused 
with one another. 

To look down-To lose balance 
To look left-Don´t look left 

To look right- To do what is right and lose your balance 

Patlologies are   Pathologies 
People are driven by cars 
to work for cheap paper 
to buy houses that are too big. 

There are many ways to be a whore. 

Capitalists die at 30. 
Communists starve from idealology. 

Alcohol and Tobacco will kill Young Urban Professionals. 

I. 

It´s okay to be confused 
about the important things sometimes. 
The people who care understand that 

and don´t overthink everything 
and don´t waste shower water; 

feed Pigeons instead 
in a place with trees. 




*After you have read this treat yourself with a piece of chocolate.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 10 march 2012

Flash Flood





The muscles tighten 
The chest protrudes 
The shoulders broaden 
          The endorphins 
                          fly 
                             spin 
                        race 
                                 absorb 
                              shake 
                                    blow-up 
                    r   i   p    a    p     a   r    t 
                                   stream 
                         run 
                                          absorb: 
brighter, higher, amplified 
                            like the 4th of July 
  
moving to one heartbeat increasing, Increasing, Increasing! 
  
to 
a climax 
  
choking happily on drunk-red fleshy spots 
  
steady drumbeats moving with steam whistles 
pushed down a mountain like a free falling object 
  
momentum 
        momentum 
                 momentum 
                          momentum 
                                   momentum 
  
quicker 
quicker quicker 
quicker quicker quicker 
quicker quicker quicker quicker 
quicker quicker quicker quicker quicker 
  
making toes curl in the imagination 
ruptured by the blink-




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 10 march 2012

La Arcángela





I lived 
drank 
and wasted away, 
without ever knowing 
from one day to the next 
before the one after that. 
  
Many nights(years later) 
you were in front of me 
with a red dress. So real 
I could touch you. So I did! 
Then I held you, kissed you 
and fell to earth. 
  
I no longer live for today 
but for tommorrow, then 
the day after that without 
knowing what today is, nor caring.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 10 march 2012

Hurt Feelings Aside,











stupid audiences are no worse than 
boring poets,boring musicians, boring artists 
boring philosophers. 

If the world is  a stage, 
the audience: (you) amoral nymphs 
gorging off the sangría 
pouring out  of my wrists. 
I am a prostitiute. 

We´ll clank our glasses together 
and taste smooth full-bodied delusion, 
lay the cornerstone the next eleven steps 
are bulit upon. 

Eternal life Moral enlightenmnet 
all crocks one in the same, 
but you will still fade away 
like blood thirsty citizens 
swayed to and fro with the prose 
of sweet idiots like me. 

I am no vanguard 
nor should you pat yourselves on the back 

but digress 
I, 
          because 

that cute guy in the corner checking you out 
is really saying 
                "She have wide hips, she give many babies". 

that cute girl smiliing and tussling her hair 
is really saying 
                "He have broad shoulders, he hunt many antelope". 

and 

all I really want is a spear to kill things with, 
marking my territory on the walls with out 
getting arrested, scratch my balls in public, 
naked like pre-historic man. 

and 

six months from now you will love this poem 
on a different night, in a different bar, no different from this 
swathing into another more pretentious than the next 

cursed by sirens singing on the rocks 
about cusps, futures, selfish revolutions 
taking vacations to the margins 
with that so typical 
Wicker Park mentality.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 8 march 2012

Poetry On A Bus: March 8th 2012 Repeated

Why do you revile!
this book of poetry
I read?
 
Why do your stubby
fingers shake! with
anger?
 
Why does your upper lip quiver?
as your blood pressure
rises! Spatially imprisoned,
conditioned to beleive
beauty is useless and unproductive.
 
Can´t you understand!  Your
ugliness is as beautiful as
this book of poetry I read
you so revile.
 
I am, you are
citizens of a black mass
on Gray´s gray line
from infinity to infinity
Like Bus Stops on the circular
getting on at one stop
getting off at another,
while the bus travels on
full of Abuelas yelling:
Puerta! Puerta! Puerta!
when the driver refuses
to move slow enough
for their bones.
 
 
 
History has gotten over you.
The next generation has gotten over you.
Someday, I will get over you.
But, will you one day get over you.
Idolatry comes in subtle forms
and consumerism is not the engine,
but you, you alone, are stupid enough
to believe the Bus Stops begin and end
with tri-corner mythology.
 
I was once your Marine-Hero
burning, raping, pillaging,
killing; feeding the grass
the blood that makes it grow.
Carried those stereotypes
proudly upon my chest
above and left of my heart
you lap up like a dog
in those thoughtless
box-movie theaters.
 
Like all good Marines I
called myself a christian,
though I probably wasn´t.
And all good christians
called me christian
because
a scourge called Islam was upon us,
burning, raping, pillaging
killing; not so different  
from us.
And God would forgive me
for the seventeen-year old asian Girls
I wore through like second-hand clothes,
though they fall in love and feel
their hearts break much like us.
I could drink a case of beer,  run
up recon ridge then tell you to
"Shut The Fuck" with the best,
 
                       but
tonight I´d rather drink tea
and read the book of poetry
you so revile!  The endless
rounds of cheap beer become
harder to recover from the
closer I push thirty, and
Wednesday´s are for Yoga.
You will always be welcome
on my property, after all
we are a society and communism
has been dead for twenty years.
I´ve seen it´s obituary!
I´ve seen it´s headstone!
I´ve seen it´s occupied
burial plot.  You can stop
and take a punjabi breath
 
alone, together, indifferent
with one another   on the same gray line.


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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 4 march 2012

Prose: Madness Personified





The years have begun 
to pass with seasons 
watching winter slowly 
squeezed out by the sun belt 
inching north, to where 
frosts no longer sing 
the dreary melody whistled 
in the februrary chill.  And 
death in all of it´s tricky forms 
from; the pointless slaughter 
wasting, agonizing away 
in a broken system: The 
over dramatic shakesperian like 
fall from grace by those 
with fat ears who see the world 
short sighted; and do not understand 
the remnant who will not except 
table scraps like hungry, obedient dogs. 

Priya, 
the first kiss on the 9th of September 
is as real as the last kiss on the 16th of December 
as real as the next kiss I impatiently anticipate. 
I am not mad nor never was, but this weight 
on my heart becomes to much sometimes 
to concentrate on the next foot in front of me 
when the horizon looks so beautiful over our ocean. 
I understand more than you think, though I lose myself in 
the dribble rolling of my sleeve I am irrecoverably attached to, 
chained to this mountain like Prometheus above the first circle 
of Dante´s Inferno, for it is worth the fire burning inside you. 

Your hand clenches mine tighter and tighter 
not in front of me, not behind me, but next to me, 
an extension of my right arm.  I lose myself in you as I 
lose myself in the words of O´Hara, Ashbery, Kock and Shuyler, 
words that call me to my mecca(New York). 
I have always dreamed of you; on the playground 
seeing cruel children choose sides until only one is left; 
all the times I felt the salt sting open sores 
like car exhaust on bloody knees; in the rotten desert 
with a sword that hung over my hemet with piano wire when 
I promised to loosen my finger from the trigger; you always 
breathing on my shoulder.  You pulled me from 
the colf lake effect wind and 4 years later my eyes laid upon you 
for the first time in front of a castle I now consider ours. 

My Words, poetry from a recess 
neither google nor facebook can spoil 
the prose I express only to you 
because, 
to hurt 
to love 
to care 
to yell 
to share 
to fight 
to understand 
to have compassion 
to have symapthy 
to dare 
to dream 
to take the path left of two roads 
diverged in a wood 
is to win.




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Matthew Bass

Matthew Bass, 1 march 2012

Blanket

STOP    
     
                                           TELLING    
     
     
ME        HOWStructures          
                           are     TO    
                           strAight jackets      
                           with    
   can you[not]     flower    
     SCREAM              AND      YELL    
                           lace.    
             think?


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